"This sucks," Buffy muttered to Willow as she looked out at the crowd from the makeshift 'stage'. She dodged a half-full beer can and sneered at the rowdy college kids, frat bros and their ditzy girlfriends drunk out of their minds who'd probably never seen a real punk show in their lives. The ones who weren't actively heckling them were milling around like there was no music at all.

"Play Teen Spirit!" called some preppy junior.

Buffy rolled her eyes, "Do I look like Kurt Cobain to you?"

"Courtney," said another guy. To someone else he said, "What? She's blonde."

Willow noodled a little riff, then pouted at Buffy, "Sorry Buff, I thought it'd be a good gig."

"I guess they can't all be winners. At least we're getting paid," Buffy sighed, "Let's play another song."

"Do we know any other songs?" said Xander.

"I don't," said Willow, "Buff, we've played everything we know."

There was a very awkward silence, until Buffy stepped up to the mic, some feedback screeching as she cleared her throat. "Uh, sorry guys," she told the crowd, "I guess we're done."

There were a few drunken boos and a few drunker 'thank god's and the band started to pack up. Buffy seemed frustrated, righteous, while Willow looked downright ashamed.

Percy, a conventionally attractive jock with fewer brain cells than fingers, stumbled somewhat pissed (in both the English and American definitions of the word) over to them. "Rosenberg," he said, "What the hell?"

"What do you mean 'what the hell?'" said Willow, "We played a set. We settled on a set, and that was a set. A full set. So we're all set." She glanced at Buffy and Xander, "Right?"

"Yeah, but it sucked," said Percy, "No one wants to hear your feminist anthem crap. Can'tcha just play some Smashing Pumpkins or something?"

"We don't know any other covers," said Buffy, "It's No Doubt and Sleater-Kinney or zilch, alright? Just pay us and we're gone."

He scoffed, "I'm not paying you."

"Percy," said Willow softly, "Don't screw with Buffy, you know she's kinda… buff."

Suddenly a hand was on Percy's shoulder. "Hey buddy," said the newcomer, whose voice was raspy in a cool Joan Jett sort of way, "Why don't you back the hell off and let me take care of this?"

He spun around, and behind him stood a young woman, brunette, who seemed by looks alone to be about forty-percent punk rock, fifty-percent unbridled confidence, and twenty-percent sexual promiscuity. "Who the hell are you?" asked Percy.

"Doesn't matter. Not to you, anyway." The woman nodded at Willow, "Hey Red, can I borrow that?"

Willow cocked her head, "What?"

Percy was about to say something, but some beautiful, skinny sorority girl who looked like if Barbie was real called him over from across the house. Like he had no control over his legs (but let's be real—that's not the extremity he had no control over), he left with one last glare at Willow.

"Your ax," that sexy, confident, brunette said, gesturing at Willow's guitar. She turned to Buffy, "Hey, you guys are sick by the way. I'm Faith." And back to Willow: "Now let me see that strat."

"Uh," Willow said, "I'm… using it?"

"No you're not," said Faith, "Don't know any other songs, right? Lemme help ya out so you don't look like a buncha posers and you get paid."

Buffy growled, "Whoever you are, get off the—"

Another beer can came flying at them, and Faith caught it mid-air. She crushed it, and then threw it with dangerous force back at whomever had chucked it.

"Fine, whatever," Willow shrugged, "This sucks anyways."

Faith took Willow's guitar and played some insane solo, then started up a Red Hot Chili Peppers song. Xander frantically hopped back on the drums and tried to play along, and Buffy scrambled up to the mic to sing the words, which she knew pretty well (though she had to make a few up), her bass abandoned. Willow stood back awkwardly for a sec, then sighed and wandered off to the bathroom to be literally anywhere else.

Willow kind of wanted to cry—which would be the only thing more embarrassing than what had just happened. Of course she booked a bad gig, of course she wasn't good enough on guitar, and of course some stranger at a party could replace her in a heartbeat. She really was a poser, and everyone here knew it.

She opened the bathroom door without thinking or knocking. But someone was in there, she noticed with a blush and a little startled jump. "Oh, sorry!" she cried, "I guess the lock's brok—"

She cocked her head, realized it was none other than Amy Madison that occupied the restroom, and Willow's strange friend didn't seem to be using it for its intended purpose. "Amy?" Willow said, "What are you doing?"

Faith and the band played a few more popular covers, and the frat boys seemed to approve. And once the set was finally over, Willow met the rest of them lounging in a corner, rocking energetically on the balls of her feet before Xander scooted over for her to sit.

"Will!" said Buffy, "Where've you been?"

"I was hanging out with Amy," said Willow.

"Sorry about taking your spot, Red," said Faith, "You guys were dyin' up there."

"No, you're right," said Willow with a wide, goofy smile, "Woulda been a really awkward way to end the set. I'm Willow, by the way. You can really play guitar."

"It's all about confidence," said Faith, "And skill. And a sense of rhythm. Hand strength, muscle memory… But, y'know. Mostly confidence."

"And look!" said Buffy. She held up a very, very small wad of cash. Maybe 'wad' was too generous a term, "Our first paid gig."

"Cool," said Willow. But she didn't seem so excited about the money; she just seemed generally restless, excited about everything as a baseline but also about nothing in particular.

Xander was a little drooly, "Faith was just telling us about a time she kicked a guy unconscious for trying to look up her bandmate's skirt."

"You're in a band?" said Willow.

"Used to be. In Boston," said Faith, "Music is great, but people can be…"

"Not so great. Yeah, I'm familiar," said Buffy, "Well if you're looking for some new people, we've been trying to find a lead guitarist."

"You serious?" said Faith, "I might just take you up on that, B."

"But you gotta bring your own guitar," huffed Willow, possibly a little annoyed but still grinning, "Can't use mine."

"Not a problem," said Faith, "You just tell me where 'n when."

There was a brief, almost microscopic silence after Buffy nodded and jotted down Faith's phone number. The break in conversation made Willow uncomfortable. "Do you go here?" she asked, out of the blue, "To UCSD?"

"Nah," said Faith, "I dropped out. Of high school."

"You dropped out of high school," Willow repeated. She seemed like she was going to continue, but then she looked around the room like she was distracted by something, knees bouncing anxiously.

"Anyway," said Faith, "I'm gonna go get some beer. I'll see you guys. Hit me up about that practice."

Faith left, exuberant, like the night was still young and she had entire other shows to play, whole groups of new people to meet, guys to hook up with. Buffy leaned towards Willow, watching her until the guitarist's eyes finally landed on hers again from where they'd wandered around the room. Willow started at the unexpected closeness.

"Will," said Buffy, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Willow said, "I'm fine. Why?"

"You seem off," said Buffy, "I'm sorry about all that. I wanted to stop her, but you gave her your guitar and I wasn't gonna start a fight in front of all these, y'know… 'Pricks' might be the word?"

"I think it's 'jackasses'," said Xander, eyeing Percy as the jock made out with that insanely hot Barbie girl, disdain in the drummer's grimace (and maybe a teeny, tiny bit of envy).

"No, it's fine," said Willow, jittery. She sniffed, "It's fine, it's fine."

Buffy glanced at Xander, who shrugged.

"I'm gonna go—" Willow started. She glanced around again, "I'm gonna go. Not go-go. I'll be back." She stood, a little shaky, and disappeared into the crowd.

"She's probably just upset," said Xander to Buffy as soon as Willow was out of earshot, "It was a bad show. You know how she is when she's nervous."

"I dunno," said Buffy, "She's acting weird."

"If Willow wasn't weird," said Xander, "She wouldn't be Willow. Would she?"

"Well," Xander announced the next day as Buffy lumbered sleepily into their practice room, "That could have only gone worse if the ground opened up and sucked us into Hell. Actually, that might've been better."

"There's always bad gigs," said Buffy, "One day I'll tell you about some of the ones I had in LA."

"You could tell me now."

"You ever have an amp short circuit and burn down a gym?"

"That's the thing about drums," said Xander, "No circuits. No electricity. Just plain old hitting things with sticks. Been doing it since the cavemen. And speaking of: where's Will?"

"Speaking of cavemen?"

"Speaking of electricity blowing things up," Xander clarified.

"She's not here yet?" said Buffy, "I left early to take Dawn to school, I figured Willow would have been here by now."

"Well it's only 11:43," said Xander with a glance at the clock.

"That clock hasn't worked since '96," said Buffy. She checked her watch, "She's late. That's a first."

"Maybe she's hungover," Xander shrugged.

"I didn't see her drink that much last night," said Buffy, "And I've seen her hungover and she's surprisingly peppy. Maybe she's sick or something, let me call the house."

She came out to the front desk and leaned on it, sporting the biggest puppy-dog eyes, "Giles, can I use the phone?"

"There's a payphone over there," Giles said, glancing up from his book and indicating the graffitied machine by the door.

Buffy cocked her head at him, "But I have to pay for it."

He sighed and passed her the receiver from his own desk, "Nothing international, I hope?"

"Giles, who do I know outside of the Pacific time zone? I'm just calling Willow."

"She's not here?" he said, "I just assumed she got in before I did and took the studio keys out of my desk."

"Nope," said Buffy, dialing. She put the receiver to her ear and frowned as it seemed to ring for an eternity before someone finally picked up.

The voice was muffled, drowsy, "Hello?"

"Will!" said Buffy. She was relieved, and then concerned again, and a little judgemental, "...Were you sleeping?"

"Um," said Willow, "No?"

"Willow," said Buffy, "It's after noon."

"It is?" said Willow. Buffy could hear the rustling of the guitarist scrambling out of bed, possibly knocking something over in the process, "Sorry Buffy, I dunno why I overslept. Um, I'm on my way."

Buffy hung up with a huff. "She overslept," she told Giles.

"That's unlike her," Giles said.

"Yeah, well," said Buffy, "We had a bad gig last night. Hard to stay motivated, y'know?"

She turned around to head back to their studio when an aggravatingly familiar figure burst through the door, that dusty leather jacket sprawled over his head like he'd burst into flames if he touched the sun.

"Well that's a new look for you," said Buffy, "You know, those holes are for your arms."

"Oh, can it, Slayer," said Spike, "I burn easily."

"Ah," Buffy smirked, "Too punk rock for sunscreen?"

"I… forgot, okay?"

"Afraid our bright hot sun's gonna turn you into a California Raisin, old timer? Maybe it's time to head back to jolly old England. Do they even have sun there?"

"Do not go bad-mouthing England," Giles called from his desk.

Buffy leaned against the wall and studied Spike for a moment, "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Well, the electricity went out in my crib, so I'm meeting my buddy here. Clem."

"Clem?"

"Clem. Real old-school punk guy. I used to cheat him at poker back in the day."

The door opened again: "Hi Spike." It was a burly man, covered in ink and with skin so pale it was almost pinkish.

"—beat him at poker," Spike revised, "I used to beat him at poker."

"You must be Clem," said Buffy, "Wow. You really went all out with the tatts."

"Yeah well," Clem had an impossibly, almost eerily friendly smile behind the vaguely demonic exterior, "It was kind of the thing to do at the time. Hey!" Buffy was a little startled by the sudden exclamation, "You're that girl from The Scoobies! I saw you play over at The Initiative. You guys are amazing!"

"At least someone appreciates us," said Buffy, pointedly and with a nod in Spike's general direction, "So what. You guys in a band together?"

"Starting one, yeah," said Spike before Clem even had a chance to answer, "The Crypt, we're called. Yep. Kind of a noisy post-punk thing. You wouldn't get it."

Buffy nodded very slowly, "Right. Have fun with that."

The little bell on the door rang yet again as it opened to reveal Faith, sporting a guitar case with so many stickers on it that Buffy wasn't sure what color it was. "Hey B!" Faith said. She glanced at Spike, "Hey tall, blonde, and leather." Then she turned to Clem, "Hey…" She seemed stunned at her own loss for words, like she'd never before experienced such a predicament, "Wow. That's a helluva lotta ink."

"Thank you," said Clem, proud.

"Hey Faith," said Buffy.

"What," Spike scoffed, "You replace Red already? She was the only one of you that could halfway play."

"Faith's gonna play lead," said Buffy, "Willow only plays rhythm."

"Where is the little witch, anyway?" said Spike, "Buddy of mine tells me she's the whiz, works gear like magic, always here tinkerin'. I got a fuzz pedal she could look at."

"She's late," said Buffy, "And don't stiff her. She's not fixing your stuff for free. Or at all, if I've got anything to say about it."

"I'm here!" came the muffled voice through the door just before it flew open, as if on cue. "I'm here! I'm here. Wow, party in the hallway today, huh?"

"Hey Will," said Buffy, "You feeling alright?"

"Yeah, I'm totally fine!" said Willow, a little too fast, "Hi Faith. Hi rude blonde leather guy—Spike, right? Hi…— I don't think I know you."

The tatted titan held out a hand, "Clem."

"Hi Clem."

Spike puffed out his chest, "Well, if it isn't Bloody Mary herself."

"I wanna hear that story," said Faith, punching Willow lightly in the shoulder.

"It's not a story," said Spike, "This one's breaking her skull and bleedin' all over the Bronze."

"Shut up, Spike," said Willow. "God, is every embarrassing thing I do gonna follow me forever?"

"That's not embarrassing," said Faith, "It's badass. I've had at least three concussions in my day. Yep, even spent a few days out cold in the hospital. Least it means you don't got a thick skull like Bleached over here."

Willow grinned a little.

"Oh, my skull's plenty thin." Spike said, "Listen, Red. I've got this fuzzbox—"

"Nope," said Buffy, dragging Willow away by the arm just as the guitarist's ears seemed to perk up, "We're already running late. Faith, follow me. Let me show you our studio."